


let me take your temperature, dean

by novelteas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic, cas is such a mom, this is so gay bye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-29 00:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8469673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelteas/pseuds/novelteas
Summary: Dean hates getting sick. He hasn't been properly sick since he was seventeen, and twenty years of hunting are beginning to take their toll on his immune system. The person taking care of him probably isn't real, and it's definitely not Castiel, because that's just the fever talking, of course.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA THIS IS SO GAY AND I REALLY WANTED TO WRITE IT SO THERE  
> lots of fluff and just cas !!! taking care of dean!!! and giving dean some goddamn affection!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111111!!!111111!1

Dean hates being sick.

The last time he was sick, properly sick, unable to get out of bed, with a fever above 99 degrees, was when he was seventeen. John left him on his own in their motel room with Sam and pulled off his hunt by himself. Since then, he's been able to keep pretty much any natural illnesses at bay with copious amounts of alcohol to make up for the pathetic lack of sleep he gets. (And of course, being a demon probably had something to do with it at some point.)

He doesn't know why he gets sick for the first time in nearly twenty years now. Maybe it's everything that's happened: Amara, God, his _mom_ , his mom _leaving_ , Lucifer - he has no idea what the trigger is. It's been so long since he was last sick that when he wakes up after a three hour nap, the rolling nausea twisting in his stomach feels almost entirely foreign. (What is prolonged nausea, anyway? Is that even a thing? He thought it was just gagging a couple times, but apparently not.)

"Whoa," Sam says, as soon as Dean walks into the kitchen. "What's up with you?"

"Could ask you the same thing," Dean shoots back, pinching the bridge of his nose and swallowing down bile. "The pizza last night probably had some problems."

Sam's skeptical. "Dude, I ate the pizza too. And I'm _fine_."

"Maybe you metabolized it faster while you were sleeping." Dean forces himself to swallow again and leans over the sink, gasping. "God."

Sam narrows his eyes at his brother, then widens them with realization. "Are you sick?"

"No!"

". . ."

"I'm not sick, Sam." Dean coughs and leans into the fridge to grab a beer. "It's probably just alcohol withdrawal."

If their lives were a reality TV show, the camera would be zooming into Sam's face right now. He eyes Dean. "Where's Cas?"

"What?"

"Cas," Sam repeats. "Where is he?"

"How should I know?"

Sam shrugs. "Don't you guys have, like, an empathy link or something?"

It's Dean's turn to stare at an indistinct point in the distance before flicking his eyes back to his younger brother. " _What_?"

"Just - where is he? I feel like he could probably make a decent doctor."

"No," Dean says, assertively, which is incredibly difficult at the moment as he clutches at the counter behind him for balance. "We are _not_ calling Cas here to come _diagnose_ me on your whim."

"Why not?" asks a deep, gravelly voice, and Dean wants to collapse on the ground right then and there.

"Hey, Cas," Sam says by way of greeting. "Want some breakfast?"

"I'm alright, thank you." Cas turns to Dean and raises his eyebrows. "Dean, you look ill. Let me take your temperature."

Dean holds up his hand, fending off Cas weakly as he approaches and reaches out for Dean's forehead. "Cas - Cas, st - _Cas_!" 

"He has a fever."

Sam purses his lips together and fixes Dean with a look that somehow looks exactly like Mary's _don't start giving me bullshit_ look.

* * *

What begins as an underlying drone of nausea and buzzing in Dean's head is quickly exacerbated into a full headache, unstoppable vomiting, and the total inability for Dean to open his eyes for fear of the warm lighting in the bunker temporarily blinding him. By late afternoon, it's impossible for him to fake his health anymore, and Cas walks into the library to find Dean seated at a desk with his head resting on the surface of the table, breathing heavily with his eyes half-closed.

"Dean," he says, bending down slightly until he's at eye-level with Dean. "Dean?"

Dean makes some sort of groaning sound, and Cas sighs. "Dean, you're sick. Where's Sam?"

"Sam?" Dean mutters, his speech thick and slurred, like he's drunk, even though there are no beer bottles in sight. "Sam . . . Mom . . . ?"

With one last desperate glance around the library, as if Sam will magically appear to help him (which he doesn't), Cas heaves another sigh and wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders. "Come on," he says, hoisting Dean out of his chair. "You need to sleep it off."

Dean whimpers - actually _whimpers_ \- as Cas drags him off the chair by his armpits. Cas only looks around helplessly and starts towards Dean's bedroom. He's never had to deal with something like this before. (How have humans subsisted this long like this? he wonders to himself, pulling Dean along behind him on the floor as he traipses through the hallways of the bunker. It's like they're totally unable to take care of themselves. Or maybe that's just specific to Dean. Perhaps.) 

"Mom," Dean repeats, his hand twitching and reaching out to grab something as Cas finds his room and hauls Dean onto his bed. "Mom?"

"No, it's Castiel," Cas says seriously, looking down at his human confusedly and eyeing Dean's twitching fingers. Uncertain and concerned, he reaches his own hand out tentatively and places it within grasping range of Dean's fingers.

Dean latches onto them and grips them surprisingly tightly for someone of his condition. "Mom," he repeats, softer. His voice cracks. A thin sheen of sweat breaks out on his upper lip, and Cas extracts his hand from Dean's to place on his forehead again. 

"Dean, I'm not your mother," he says, forcing out some sort of unspoken apology. "I'm sorry. Also, you're running a very high fever. I wouldn't be surprised if these delusions were because of it."

Dean mumbles something else incoherently, and his eyes flutter shut as he rolls over on his side, searching for the sound of Cas's voice. "Cas," he whispers, almost silent.

Cas nods, then surveys the room briefly. The chair where he used to sit and watch Dean sleep is in the opposite corner, so he moves it next to the bed, within touching distance of Dean. 

What makes humans so different from angels? Cas thinks to himself, glancing around the room. Why are they somehow so much weaker?

The need for validation, he says, answering his own question. The need for affection.

Cas remembers many small details about Dean Winchester. One of them is how much Mary means to him. The mother that he should have always grown up with, but lost at the age of four. Dean only grew up with memories of Mary Winchester, from what John told him. And one of those memories . . .

Another cursory scan of the room sends Cas to the trunk of knick-knacks Dean keeps in his bedroom. He rifles through it, past a couple photos of Mary and Dean, past a stack of old things from when he was living with Lisa and Ben, hoping, praying to himself (what sort of angel even _does_ that?) that he'll find what he needs.

About halfway down the trunk, he finds it: the yellowed cream-colored cover of Dean's copy of _Slaughterhouse Five_. Of course Dean would have this book. Of course he'd have Vonnegut. (Cas does have to smile a tiny bit. Only someone like Dean would be so aggressive but still appreciate good literature like this.) He flips through it, closes the trunk, and takes a seat by Dean's bed, placing his right hand back in Dean's outstretched one. 

"Hello, Dean," he says gently, opening the book and holding it up to his eyes.

* * *

Dean can't force his eyes open. Everything that happens in his brain is half-real and he's not sure if the person dragging him through the hallways is a Styne, Mary, John, Sam, or Cas. Everything is in slow-motion, yet so fast at the same time. His face is on fire and he can't stop shivering.

A hand slips into his, then leaves again. He wants to cry out, but he can't, afraid that if he opens his mouth he'll just vomit. 

Is that Cas's voice?

"Hello, Dean," it says softly. 

The voice clears its throat and begins to read.

"All this happened, more or less."


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i got a number of comments asking for a 2nd part and since part 1 had been written while i was at school in the timespan of 30 minutes (lmao yieks) i decided to write part 2 now wit EXTRA gay and EXTRA fluff and also dean cries ok so here's ur little part 2 it's not super long but pls enjoy!! ok thank you i love all of you reading this and yeah

Cas is about halfway through _Slaughterhouse Five_ when Dean wakes up again.

Not a real waking up, though, he sort of opens his eyes blearily, groans, and falls off the bed in an attempt to make it to the waste basket before he vomits. Cas sets down the book with the spine facing up, looks at Dean, lying at his feet, face flushed and sweat beading on his forehead, and sighs.

"Dean, I think I should take you to see a doctor."

" _Sam?_ " Dean asks, incredulously, breathing heavily and forcing down the sour taste of stomach acid in the back of his throat as the piece of toast he ate at lunch threatens to make a reappearance. "'S okay. I'm fine."

Cas stands up, crouches down next to Dean, and pulls him into an upright position against the side of the bed. "Stay here, Dean," he says sternly. "I will get you some water and medication."

Dean catches the _stay here_ and nods slowly, sagging against the bed. The world around him is spinning, hurling around in circles as he grips at the floor with his half-bitten nails, trying to catch a grip on reality. He sits there, floating in some weird plane of existence for who knows how long, before Cas finally returns with a glass, water still dripping from his fingertips where the sink splashed back onto him.

"Dean," he says gently, again, lifting his free hand to Dean's forehead and pushing a couple sweaty strands of hair out of the way. "Dean, wake up." He takes Dean's hand in his and wraps his fingers around the glass, guiding it to his cracked lips. Dean immediately purses his lips and frowns, forcing himself to swallow the water against his churning stomach.

"Cas?" he whispers. 

"Yes, Dean." Cas lowers the glass, sets it on the table, and settles, crouched, beside Dean. He reaches out tentatively, tension building in the air. Fingers trembling, just the tiniest bit, even for an angel of stature.

He takes Dean's hands in his right and cups his sweaty face in his left. 

"Dean, come on, you're ill," Cas murmurs again, helping Dean off the floor and back onto the bed. He pulls down the bedsheets and pokes noncommittally at the pillows on the bed before leaning Dean back and tugging the sheets up to his shoulders, pressing the back of his hand to Dean's clammy cheek with an affectionate smile. "Just sleep, Dean."

Dean can't tell what's happening. His face is numb, but there's cold water in his mouth and sliding down his throat. He wants more, but his stomach says no. Some warm hand caresses his face softly and he just wants to lift up his hands and grab that hand between them and clasp it forever like a lifeline. He widens his eyes fractionally and catches a glimpse of bright blue, and instinctively he utters Castiel's name.

And then he's falling into bed somehow, and it's cold but also warm and soft and there's a gentle hand on his cheek, like his mom's, comforting and loving, but all he can think of at the moment is those bright blue eyes and Cas and how he just wants Cas to wrap his arms around him and make him feel safe.

"Billy blacked out as he walked through gate after gate," Cas reads, clearing his throat, his deep voice digging through the uncomfortable haze surrounding Dean. "He came to what he thought might be a building on Trafaldamore."

Through the unsettling, stifling air of fatigue and nausea building around Dean's head, he allows himself to sink into his bed and listen to Cas's voice. He's not entirely sure if it's Cas. It sounds like his father, but it sounds like Sam at the same time, and then it sounds like Benny, and then he's _really_ far gone because he can hear Mary and Lisa reading to him together. He opens his mouth to try to mutter the words like they should come, but he can't, nothing comes out, and then he's full of the overwhelming urge to cry suddenly.

Cas stops reading.

"Dean?" he says, voice full of confusion and the tiniest bit of hurt. Dean really needs to cry now, because Cas is so full of concern and he doesn't want - no, doesn't deserve _any_ of it. None of this, none of the forehead stroking and back rubbing as he sips water.

"Dean," Cas repeats, setting the book back down on the nightstand. His dry thumbs are back on Dean's cheeks, wiping away a stray tear. _So he's really crying. It's not just in his head_. He sits down on the edge of the bed and eases Dean into a sitting position. "Are you in pain?"

Dean opens his eyes wearily and focuses on the tan trenchcoat that has always been indicative of Cas's reassuring presence. _Did Cas just ask a real question?_ he wonders, narrowing his eyes at Cas slightly. A bit perplexed, Dean nods. Yes, he thinks. Yes, he's in pain.

And he starts crying.

It's been a long time since Dean's been sick like this. It's been a long time since Dean's cried like this, too.

Weirdly, the crying relieves a lot of the nausea. It's like a catharsis for everything. He's purifying his entire body like this, just by crying. He remembers vaguely being very sick, as children are often prone to be, as a toddler when he was four or so, just before Mary died. It's been thirty-three years since he had someone comfort him while sick and lay him back on his pillows and take his temperature and get him water the way Cas is doing. Call it cruel irony, but of course it has to happen right after Mary comes back and then peaces out with a quick hug, like she's popping out to the store or something. 

Dean sobs like a child. His shoulders are shaking and he feels so, so weak, and everything is spiraling so out of control, not even his body can get a grip on itself. And he can't control it; he can't control the ugly cry that comes out of his shuddering mouth, and he's so damn _embarrassed_ , because he would never be caught dead doing this in front of _anybody_ , throwing a temper tantrum like a damn five year-old. 

But he wants his mom - no, not his mom. He wants someone to take care of him.

He wants someone to love him.

Cas watches him shake and watches his teeth come unclenched and tears just come streaming out of his eyes, and watches his hands knot themselves in the sheets, and he doesn't know what to do, but he remembers watching Dean comforting Charlie once, pulling her into a hug and smoothing her hair down.

So he does the same.

Castiel, Angel of the Lord, shifts over and pulls Dean in for a hug, bringing Dean's head closer so that it rests in the crook of his shoulder. He wraps his arms around Dean's trembling frame and absorbs all of his bone-rattling, frame-wracking sobs. "Dean," he hums quietly, resting his hand on top of Dean's head and stroking his short hair. "Dean, it's okay. I'll get you some pain medicine. Stay here."

Dean stops crying and his hand shoots up to grab Cas's wrist. "No," he chokes out weakly. 

"I thought you said you were in pain," he says indignantly. "Dean, my powers aren't enough to - "

"A different kind of pain," Dean explains, his grip loosening. Nausea threatens to overtake him again, but he shakes it off. "Cas, this is - this is . . . the inside pain."

Cas stops. "Oh."

Dean hiccups with a couple more tears, and Cas wipes them away. "I just - I _need_ her Cas," he whispers, broken. "I'm sick and she's back and she's not here and I need her."

Cas shushes him reassuringly. "I will be here for you, Dean. It's okay. You don't need to worry." 

He holds Dean in his arms and rubs his knuckles into his hair gently and whispers the words of reassurance he needs to hear. And then, when Dean's shaking subsides and his breathing is slow and regular again, Cas leans back against the headboard of the bed, Dean nestled against his body, and reaches over to the nightstand again, picking up the book and beginning where he left off.

"So it goes," he reads, leaning down so that he can rest the side of his face on top of Dean's. 

" _And Billy zoomed back in time to his infancy. He was a baby who had just been bathed by his mother. Now his mother wrapped him in a towel, carried him into a rosy room that was filled with sunshine. She unwrapped him, laid him on the tickling towel, powdered him between his legs, joked with him, patted his little jelly belly. Her palm on his little jelly belly made potching sounds._ "

Dean shifts the tiniest bit and knots his fingers into the fabric of Cas's trench, humming contentedly. Cas pauses for a moment to graze his fingers over Dean's forehead, feeling the slowly cooling fever. 

Cas smiled to himself. 

"Billy gurgled and cooed."


End file.
